Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Dimensions above the mortal night, in the radiant heart of her own domain, Goddess Lilyanna was fighting for her existence.

The assault had come in the deep of that night, without herald or declaration.

One heartbeat of stillness, then the stain on her cheek had torn open from the inside, and the Withered Flame had poured through the breach in her own skin.

Ash-scented fire rolled through corridors that had never known heat.

Planes of layered starlight buckled inward one after another, and every surface that failed turned the color of a dying ember before her will forced it back.

The blight on her cheek burned like a hook set in bone. Through it, patient and immense, Sel’Ashra pulled.

"Kekeke..." The laughter arrived from every direction at once, warm as a banked forge. "You feel thinner than last time, Little One. Does nobody pray properly anymore?"

"Leave!" Lilyanna’s decree bent the air of her own dimension, and the dimension answered her, folding plane over plane to cut every road the corruption tried to take.

The stain pulsed, delighted, and crawled a finger-width toward her eye.

Pain drove up through her cheekbone and into her skull. At the far edges of her domain, her radiance guttered like candles in a draft. She clamped her authority down over the crawling blight and held it still by sheer will.

"Such a stubborn little girl~"

The pressure doubled. Molten gold light seeped up between the tiles of her innermost sanctum, and the smell of scorched offerings filled a hall that had only ever smelled of dawn.

"You bleed for him on your own floor, and he has never once said thank you. Give me the boy, Little One. I would treat you both so much better..."

"You will not have him!"

The refusal came out at a pitch no divine decree should reach, and it did not care.

The Withered Flame stopped playing.

Everything the Withered Flame had fed into the anchor arrived at once, ember-cracked will in a single hammerblow, and for one appalling instant the Goddess of Purity felt her own domain forget whose it was. One of her knees touched her own floor.

Then it remembered.

This was her ground. Every plane, every silver structure, every grain of starlight had been raised by her hand and answered her will alone. Lilyanna gathered all of it, the whole architecture of her existence, and closed it over the intruder like a fist.

"This is MY house!"

Her dimension rang like a struck bell.

The corruption tore out of the anchor, shrieking backward down its own thread, and Sel’Ashra went with it, cackling into the dark between worlds.

"Kekekeke! Almost got you that time, Little One~ Almost... almost..."

The laughter frayed into distance and was gone.

Silence settled over the domain. The planes crept back into alignment, and the scorched tiles of the sanctum paled, one by one, back to silver.

Lilyanna stood in the middle of it, bent forward, heaving.

Her breath came in gulps no goddess should need, and it took a long moment before she trusted her legs enough to straighten. Her fingers rose and found her cheek. The stain sat where it had sat for far too long now, clamped back behind its old border, quiet again.

Then the Goddess of Purity stamped her foot.

The stomp cracked a plane of layered starlight clean across. It repaired itself immediately and said nothing about it.

"He corrupts me, and then I have to do this for him!" She stamped again, harder. "Divine war! In my own home! I fight for him whether I like it or not, bleeding in my home, and he doesn’t even know!"

"What am I, his slave girl?!"

The question echoed off the silver structures of her sanctum.

She heaved once more, pushed her chin up, and smoothed the front of her robe with both hands.

"...Well. He is the Subjugator."

"What a terrible man. I don’t even want to see what he’s doing right now."

She turned her back on the scrying mirror to prove it.

She retrieved her complaint notebook from where the battle had thrown it, sat very straight upon her throne, and set her pen to a fresh page.

’Complaint #24,318: Evil Boy forced a divine war upon me. He never once apologized or thanked me.’

Her pen stopped after one line.

The resistance lasted the length of a held breath.

Then the Goddess of Purity set the notebook down and spun on her throne.

She checked anyhow.

The scrying surface gathered itself out of starlight and turned its face toward Thalorind.

A burned record-house in the human kingdom. Smoke still crawling in the rafters, soldiers pressed along the walls, and the Evil Boy standing in the middle of the wreckage with the red-eyed girl at his side.

Then the fresh ink of the Soul Records surfaced across the image, lines written that very night, and Lilyanna stopped hearing her own thoughts.

[Class Evolved: Demon of Vengeance.]

"The Demon of... what?"

She leaned in until her nose nearly touched the starlight. "What? How?!"

[Iris Ravenclaw, the Demon of Vengeance. Shield of the Innocent. Scourge of the Vile. Keeper of Eternal Suffering.]

The red-eyed one. The little swordswoman forever orbiting him with a scowl, the one whose mouth belonged on a dock worker.

Then the Records gave her the rest.

[The Primordial Villain has taken his justicar.]

Lilyanna shot to her feet.

"His justicar?!"

Her voice cracked across the sanctum. "He is nowhere near divine! That seed of his has achieved exactly one thing in all these months, and it was assaulting my perfect skin!"

She began pacing the dais, robe snapping at every turn, counting on her fingers.

"An enforcer of the divine requires a seat." One finger. "A domain for the oath to anchor in." A second. "A covenant the Soul Records have ratified." A third. "And the authority to countersign the remaking of a mortal soul."

Her fourth finger stopped in the air.

Nobody alive on Thalorind held that fourth authority. She held it. Her peers held it. It was the exact power that separated a god’s arch priestess from every self-anointed prophet shouting in a market square: the signature.

The starlight mirror scrolled one more line.

[Witnessed and countersigned: Bloodfather.]

"A class," the goddess said, in a very small voice. "The Records accepted a countersign from a class."

She did not remember crossing the dais. The complaint notebook was simply in her hands again, and she was tearing backward through her own entries fast enough to bend the pages.

’Complaint #23,882: Gave the samurai water. Why water?’

’Complaint #23,990: Governor girl still hasn’t been given the ritual. The foul creature keeps neglecting her!’

’Complaint #24,102: The serpent woman’s victims rise and fight for her. This is necromancy by proxy. He has found a way to commit sacrilege through other people’s hands.’

Her pen-hand went slack.

Entry after entry, the same shape stared back at her out of her own tidy grievances: mortal women wearing power with no divine source behind it, granted, anchored, and growing.

Then she realized: ’They were already his blessed. All of them. All this time.’

’I have been keeping the registry of his faith for months, and I called it complaints.’

Her own word snagged her mid-thought.

’...No. Wrong word.’

’Faith, as the divine understand it, is a covenant with divinity. A seat above, worship rising to meet it, and the Records keeping count between.’

’He has no divinity. He has never carried a single drop of it.’

’That is the anomaly sitting in my registry.’

’He is a primordial. Even now, after the physique, after the classes, after transformation upon transformation... a primordial nonetheless. Flesh, blood, and will.’

’So what do I call the thing his people already are?’

Her eyes went back to the newest line in the Records.

Keeper of Eternal Suffering.

A domain.

The word had been sitting in plain sight, and she had read past it because it had no business being there. Domains belonged to gods. Domains were what she was standing in.

Lilyanna reached through the starlight, took hold of the newest thread in the world’s weave, and looked down into the hell of the Demon of Vengeance.

Heat came up through the scrying and touched her face.

That alone should have been impossible. A goddess’s mirror carries image, never weather, and this one was sweating.

Black metal ground ran away under a sky the color of banked coals, and the whole country was breathing, slow and hot. It held one resident.

The sound arrived first. It crossed dimensions along with the heat, a wet, doubled scream that reached her sanctum with terrible clarity, and it did not stop.

Then her eyes resolved what was making it.

In the middle of that world stood a crooked pillar of scabbed, glowing metal, and a fat man hung threaded on it with his boots off the ground.

The tapered point stood out of his gaping mouth, white-hot, and around it the scream still found room to happen.

He was descending. His own palms pressed flat against the metal above his head and pushed, driving him down a hand-span at a time, forcing the thickening glow through the whole cooked length of him. The pillar had gone in through his ass, and by now it owned everything from there to his jaw.

Blood boiled up around the point and left him in bubbles. They swelled at his lips, burst, ran hissing down the glow, and new ones rose gurgling to replace them with every push.

Damp gathered along the goddess’s hairline, and she never thought to wipe it.

Everything soft inside him burst against the widening girth as he sank, organ after organ. The domain rebuilt each one snug around the metal in the same breath, tender and thorough, so the next hand-span could burst them new.

His skin cooked where it gripped the pillar, stuck, tore free, and was remade smooth. The remaking never once got ahead of the burning.

The goddess watched with one hand pressed hard over her mouth. "How cruel!"

When his boots at last found the ground, he held still for a single heartbeat, run through from ass to mouth on metal as thick as his own chest, standing upright on his own two feet.

Then his hands turned over and began to climb. The ruined length of him tore in the opposite direction, and the scream that had never stopped climbed with him.

"That’s so terrible..." Lilyanna breathed. "The villain’s handprint all over it..."

The domain healed him as she watched, tenderly, so that nothing would ever dull.

The Records, courteous as always, provided the deed to what she was seeing.

[A world born of the Primordial Villain’s authority and the Demon of Vengeance’s vow, fueled by vengeance itself.]

[Should she fall, the domain shall endure.]

Lilyanna read the second line twice.

Her legs decided on their own.

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